


A Child's Cry

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, Other: See Story Notes, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 08:30:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jim is called in to investigate a child's death, it stirs up memories for Blair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Child's Cry

## A Child's Cry

by Daydreamer

Author's website:  <http://www.geocities.com/daydreamersden>

Not mine. They belong to the legal owners and I am just borrowing them. No money changed hands.   


Part of the Leaving Series which includes:   
Waiting   
Paper Kisses   
The Box   
Are We Leaving Again, Mommy?   
The Closet   
NanaKat   
Big Boys, Bears, and Boo-Boos   


Warning: Contains graphic depictions of child abuse.

This story is a sequel to: Big Boys, Bears, and Boo-Boos 

* * *

I didn't want him here. I knew this was going to be bad, and with all the stuff he'd been dredging up from his past lately, I knew he was going to be vulnerable. We really shouldn't have even been here and I debated telling him to stay in the truck. As if that ever worked. Finally though, I decided to just get it over with. 

As if he'd read my thoughts, he asked, "Why are we responding to this, Jim? I mean, shouldn't it go to Homicide?" 

I nodded. I'd asked Simon the same questions and hadn't liked his answer one bit. The father knew people, that was what it all came down to. "Yeah," I said, "but the father is a prominent physician, whose brother is a city councilman, and every politician in town is watching this. The mayor himself called Simon and asked for us." 

He shook his head. "Sometimes it just doesn't pay to be so good, does it, Jim?" I felt myself tense unconsciously at the dig, but then I realized the little goof was teasing me and I relaxed. I swear, I think he enjoys pushing my buttons. I took a swing at him and he ducked. Damn -- he's getting better at the ducking thing. I'm gonna have to rethink my attacks on him. He was laughing and it made me smile. He was the only person in the world who could irritate the crap out of me and still make me smile. Guess I'm just lucky that way. 

Sandburg was doing his little bounce along thing as we moved up the sidewalk. Part of me wanted to laugh and part of me just wanted him to learn to _walk_ like a normal person. But I didn't say anything. I was trying to figure out how to prepare him for what I knew was inside. We were almost at the front door when I stopped. He was still bouncing so I reached out and grabbed his arm. "This is gonna be bad, Chief," I said. "It's a kid -- a little girl, and, well ..." I didn't know what else to say. How to prepare him. How to prepare me. I was so fucking afraid he wasn't going to be able to handle this. There was just still too much whale shit in his life -- it was still all so close to the surface. "It's just bad, Chief. If you have to -- leave -- it's okay." 

He gave me a strange look at first, like he was disappointed that I thought he might have to leave. He hasn't gotten sick at a crime scene in a long time. But then I could see the gears in his brain clicking as he made the connection. If I was warning him, then he knew it had to be really _bad._ He swallowed hard, but didn't say anything, just gave me a little nod to let me know he understood. 

This older uniform, a guy named Barrett, was on the door and he waved us past. I could see Sandburg taking in the whole inside, everything from the high ceiling to the fancy chandelier to this massive fireplace in the great room. I think he approved and when I tried to look at it as if I didn't know there was a dead child just a few feet away, I agreed. It _was_ a nice house. 

When he started to veer off, to check out the fireplace I imagine, I reached out and steered him the other way. I think it reminded him of why we were there, because he paled a little, then straightened his shoulders and followed me. 

The body was in the pantry -- a room-sized storage area off the kitchen. I'd grown up pretty well-off and even our pantry had just been a large closet. This was huge. 

The sheer size of the room made the child seem that much smaller. She was laying on her back in the far corner and a more battered, abused body I had never seen. I looked at Sandburg and he was pale, impossibly pale, and as I watched, he started shaking. 

I watched him catalogue her injuries and then draw a deep breath -- in through his mouth like I always told him. He was holding my arm -- keeping me grounded so I could open up and really check things out, but I was afraid to focus on that yet. I was still worried about my partner. 

His eyes were glassy and his face was covered with this thin sheen of sweat. I could see he was struggling to hold it together, trying to keep going for my sake, but then, he must have seen something that just tore it for him. 

He started this quiet keening, "Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God ..." I don't think anyone but me could have heard it, but I knew he was about to lose it. He squeezed my arm and then ran. 

I sighed. I didn't want to have to do this to him, but I needed him to be able to really focus. Still, I should have brought Simon, given it a try with him. I had known this was going to be too much for Sandburg. He couldn't deal with this right now, not when he was struggling with these issues of his own. 

I walked out and Barrett just pointed. I waited for the smart remark, but none came. The man just looked like he knew exactly what Sandburg was going through. I got to him as he started to heave again, and I pulled his hair back with one hand, and started to rub his back. 

"Shhhh, let it go, buddy. It's okay. Just breathe. In and out. In and out. Take it easy." He was still trying to bring up his organs, but he'd emptied everything out and I knew he needed to get a grip. "Steady there, Chief, it's all right." 

I think he realized I was there then because he straightened some and gasped, then began to cough. Barrett showed up and passed him a bottle of water. "Here ya go, kid," he said softly. "Rinse your mouth." 

Sandburg nodded, rinsed, spit, and then drank. "Thanks, man," he said, and he tried to give the bottle back. "Haven't done that in a while." 

I could see he was embarrassed and while I appreciated the water, I was still going to nail this fat son of a bitch if he said one wrong word to my partner. But I didn't need to be worried. Barrett just shrugged and pointed to another little pile of upchuck further along the hedge. It made Blair smile. And that made me smile. I liked this guy. I was gonna have to remember him. 

"Why do you think I'm out here, kid?" he said with a heavy sigh. "Been doing this a lot longer than you, Sandburg, and this one really did a number on me. That kid," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the house, "she could be mine. Same age, same size, same hair color -- everything." 

Damn! I guess Sandburg wasn't the only one who was going to be having nightmares about this. 

Barrett rubbed his face and stared away at nothing, then said, "I just wanna get the fuck outta here and go see my wife and kids." He reached out and patted Sandburg's arm, and I made another note that I _really_ needed to remember this guy. He was one of the good ones. "Keep the water, kid. You and Ellison just work that magic that you're so famous for and catch this bastard fast. Don't let this be Jon-Benet all over again." 

Sandburg watched Barrett walk away and I watched Sandburg. When the big cop had disappeared into the house, he turned and looked at me. "When are you going to arrest him?" he asked. 

I was confused. Arrest Barrett? Why would we arrest Barrett? Hadn't I just decided he was one of the good guys? "Arrest who?" I asked my partner. 

He frowned, like it should be obvious and said, "The father." 

The father? Where the fuck had that come from? I mean, everyone was still a suspect at this point, but there really wasn't anything to make me think the father had done it. "Why?" I asked. 

Sandburg looked at me like I'd lost my mind. And then, in this patient voice he uses to speak to his especially dense students, he said, "Because he beat that little girl. He beat her and raped her and then he killed her." 

I let the tone go, even though it annoyed the shit out of me when he used on me. I figured I needed to cut him some slack 'cause I knew this was upsetting him. "We don't know that," I said, and it worried me that I was having to remind him of that fact. 

"I know." He sounded so positive. I looked at him closely, wondering what it was that he saw that I had missed. When Sandburg used that tone, that tone of complete and utter certainty, I had to sit up and take notice. He was never wrong. "This was not a stranger killing," he said in that same tone of complete surety. 

I just stared at him, waiting for the explanation I knew was coming. 

"The kitty litter," he said. 

O-kaaay. Maybe if I wait a little longer, he'll say something that actually makes sense. Or, maybe he was more upset than I realized. I narrowed my eyes and scanned him again. 

"He put the kitty litter down to clean up the floor." 

I closed my eyes and visualized the room again. Yeah, there was kitty litter on the floor, but there'd been a huge bag of it close to the body and I figured it had just spilled. I opened my eyes and waited. 

"To soak up the blood," he said. "Because, you know, the floor is _expensive._ " 

Fuck! 

I closed my eyes again and looked at the scene in my head. He was right. The litter had been spread deliberately. 

Jesus H. Christ. 

He was _right._

Every muscle in my body went tight. The fucking bastard had beaten, raped and killed his own child and then spread kitty litter -- to protect the fucking _floor._

I was trying to get the rage under control, clear the red haze from my vision when Sandburg started to shake. I had already reached for him when he started moving, and I had to make a sort of awkward grab to get my hand around his arm. It stopped him. "Where you going, Chief?" I asked as softly as I could. He felt fragile, like one wrong word and he would shatter. 

"Back inside. With you." He was using that annoying tone again, but I was still overlooking it because, quite frankly, I was afraid he was about to take a dive on me. He was white as a sheet and his whole body was almost convulsing, he was shaking so hard. "To get evidence," he said, and then his legs gave out and I was the only thing holding him up. I started to scoop him up and carry him to the truck, but he stiffened and managed to get himself upright again. "We have to get the evidence," he said, but his voice was faint and the words were slurred. 

He was trying to pull away, but I wasn't having any of that. I just tightened my hold, determined to hang on to him, and then his eyes got big, and his heart rate tripled and he sucked in a deep breath. His body screamed panic. "I'm sorry!" he whispered. "I'll be good!" 

I dropped his arm in a flash and stepped back. Oh, God, what was happening? I triggered something when I held on to him and wouldn't let him go. 

"Blair? Blair!" He wasn't answering. I'm not sure he was even seeing me. He was still looking around, that same scared, panicked look on his face. And then his eyes rolled up in his head and he pitched forward. I just managed to catch him and keep him from plunging headlong into the grass. 

I picked him up and hauled him to the truck. I can carry him, but he's no lightweight. I didn't want to throw him over my shoulder, which would have been the easiest, so I carried him in my arms, and even the thirty or so yards to the truck strained me. I mean, he was complete dead weight. 

I managed to open the passenger side and slide him in with his butt on the edge and his legs hanging out. I slid up between them and was sorta leaning over him catching my breath for a second. I grabbed a rag from behind the seat and wet it, then sponged off his face and lay the rag on his forehead. 

I'd caught my breath by then so I started talking to him. "Hey, buddy, what's up with this? No napping on the job. C'mon, now, time to wake up." He groaned about then, and stirred so I asked, "You awake now?" and he nodded. 

Well, of course, the first thing he does is try to get up. I swear, if you look up stubborn in the dictionary, it will say Sandburg. 

I kept my hand on his chest. "Just stay still a little longer there, Chief," I told him. "You went down pretty fast." I was watching him fairly closely. His heart was almost back to normal and his skin wasn't so pale anymore. He was tense though, as if he knew what I was going to ask next and didn't want me to ask it. "You gonna tell me what happened?" 

He shook his head. "Not here." 

Fair enough. I didn't really want to get into this here either. 

"Let me up, Jim," he said and pushed my hand away. 

I wasn't thrilled with it, but I could understand him not wanting anyone to see him like this, so I helped him sit up. He was groggy though, so standing was still on the list of 'don'ts.' I watched him breathe for a couple more minutes, the color continuing to come back to his face, and finally, when he went to stand, I didn't have a valid reason not to let him. 

"We need to go back in," he said softly. 

Absolutely not. What was he thinking? I looked at him again, thinking I must have missed something in my earlier checks if he wanted to go back in there, but he seemed okay now. It didn't matter. We weren't going in there; I wasn't putting him through that again. "I don't think so, Blair," I said and I made it as clear as I could that this was not open to negotiation. Of course, that's never deterred Sandburg before so I don't know why I thought it would work this time. 

"Look, man," he said, "her father did this. You may be the only one who can pin it on him." 

"How?" 

"Scent? The bruises matching his hand? Occult blood on his belt?" He fingered through his long hair and out of long-standing habit, I checked my pockets. Sure enough, I had one of his hair ties in with my loose change. I pulled it out and handed it to him, then watched while he corralled his mane and tied it back. "Shit," he said when he was finished. "I don't know. But there has to be something." 

He was right. I hate it when he's right about things like this. At least he's not insufferably arrogant about it. I nodded in reluctant agreement. "Okay, Chief, we'll go back in. But I can tell you now, his scent is bound to be on her -- he's her father." 

"Semen," he said and his mouth turned down in disgust. 

"The killer wore a condom." 

He lifted one hand and wrapped it around my arm, gripping me so tight it hurt. He's strong. People forget that, but not me. I know how strong he is. "Jim," he said, pleading, "he _did_ it. Please -- believe me." 

Shit. What could I say? He'd already convinced me. How could I not believe him? I reached out and patted his arm, relieved when he loosened his grip. Betcha he left bruises. "All right, Sandburg, all right. Let's go see what we can find." He looked at me and took a deep breath and when he nodded, we started across the yard again. 

"But tonight," I said, "I want to know what's going on." 

* * *

He hadn't eaten and for once I hadn't pushed too hard. He was still reeling from the scene this afternoon. I was cleaning up the kitchen while he sat on the couch and pretended to work. I knew he had a paper due sometime next week, but I could tell his mind was on anything but "The Impact of Modern Cultural Norms on Primitive Societies." 

I was searching for those little bullion cubes; I knew we had some somewhere and I was thinking I could make him some broth instead of tea, when he suddenly sighed and shut the computer. I turned to look at him just as a wave of fearscent washed over me. I was moving toward him as his heart picked up and I could actually _feel_ him start to shake from across the room. 

I had no idea what caused it, but I grabbed him up and wrapped my arms around him, holding him as tightly as I could. At first, he quaked in my arms, but slowly, as I just hung on to him, his heart began to slow, and the trembling ceased, and finally, the sour smell of fear eased. 

I wanted him to feel safe and I didn't know how else to do that but to hold on to him. 

"He used to hit me with a belt," he said, his voice muffled against my shoulder. 

Oh, God! We were starting and I wasn't ready! I was the one that put us on this road, dragging out his box of paper kisses and asking for explanations. And now, here we were, at the end I'd known was coming, and I wasn't ready. I didn't know what to do, what to say. 

And when I looked at myself honestly, I really didn't _want_ to know. Up until sixty seconds ago, I could still pretend that maybe Blair had just been so used to Naomi's loose and relaxed ways, that if someone had applied a little structure to his life -- he might not have known what to make of it. Up until sixty seconds ago, I could imagine that 'bad' times for my friend meant having to go to bed at a certain time and being made to be responsible for things like making his bed and putting his toys away. Up until sixty seconds ago, I could be in complete denial and I didn't have to acknowledge the core of rage that had existed in my belly for weeks now. 

But those words -- those eight little words -- spoken in that lost and confused tone, and my denial was destroyed. 

He used to hit me with a belt. 

I've wanted to kill before; hell, I _have_ killed before. But since I got out of the Army, never with pre-meditation, never in cold blood, and even then, I was following orders. 

Not like what I was planning now. 

I nodded, and inched him toward the couch, sitting first and pulling him down next to me. 

You know, he always looks young to me. I mean, I know he's a grown man, and he's not all that much younger than me, but still, he just _looks_ young. Maybe it's the hair -- it sure as hell isn't the five o'clock shadow. But whatever it is, he looked even younger right now. Like -- about four years old. 

"I don't know what I did," he said, and his voice was small and confused. "I tried so hard to be good." 

I was going to find out this Don's name. I was mentally working out how I could find this man. Naomi. Tomorrow, I was going to start tracking Naomi down. 

"I was quiet and I'd sit still when he told me. I tried not to ask questions or talk or anything, but he'd still get out the belt." 

I've had very specialized training. We were all taught to make use of whatever was around us. You never knew when you'd need to think outside the box. My mind was clicking and even I was amazed at the number of things I could think of to do with a belt. I couldn't wait to share them with Don. 

"I never could figure out what I was doing wrong." 

Of course Blair would think it was his fault. "Shhhh, Chief," I murmured into his hair. "You didn't do anything wrong." I tapped his head. "You know that here. You were just a little boy." 

"I was bad -- he told me." 

That was the ultimate betrayal to me. Here was Blair, parroting that man's words as if they held meaning. He was bad -- because Don told him he was. Some adults forget how much power they have over small children and damage is done but it's not intentional. And others, like Don, just destroy because they can. I searched for words. 

"You were a child." And right now, he _was_ a child. I needed to speak to the four year old boy, not the twenty-seven year old man. "He was bad. Not you. He was wrong." I hugged him and dropped a kiss on his head. "It wasn't your fault." 

"I tried to be still -- I really did. But it was so hard." He was looking at me almost as if he was afraid I was going to be angry at his next words. I silently squeezed his arm and urged him to continue. He took a deep breath. "Sometimes, when you or Simon tell me to be quiet, to be still, it's like my heart just seizes up. I want to do what you tell me, but I know I can't and then I get all scared that I'm screwing up." 

Oh -- fuck! 

What the hell can I say to that? I can't count how many times I've snapped at him to be quiet or sit still. I never meant anything by it. It's just he's always -- moving. His hands, his arms, his mouth. Walking, pacing, _bouncing._ Words tumbling one after another from his lips, topics changing faster than the weather. Sometimes, I just need a minute of stillness, of quiet. And then I snap. 'Shut up, Sandburg. Be still, Sandburg. That's enough, Sandburg!' How many times have I said those words? How many times have I made him doubt himself? 

I closed my eyes and struggled for control. This Is Not About Me. This Is Not About Me. This Is Not About Me. I felt my face blank, but I couldn't hold it -- not this time. I gave up and opened my eyes to find him watching me with worry etched on his face. "Aw, shit, Chief," I whispered, "I had no idea ... Simon had no idea." I leaned over and touched my forehead to his, running my hands up and down his arms, over his back. "It won't happen again." And it wouldn't. I'd cut my tongue out before I ever said those words to him again. He shifted and leaned into me, and I wrapped my arm around him. 

"Naomi used to tell me, 'Be a big boy for Don,' but I didn't want to be a big boy. I wanted to be a baby and have Bear, and I didn't want to have a lot of boo-boos all the time." He yanked himself out of my arms as his face flushed. "I _hated_ it there! _Hated_ it!" 

He flew to his feet, fury in every line of his body. "He _beat_ me, Jim. I was just a little kid, and he _beat_ me." I watched in amazement as he dragged his shirt off and threw it across the room. "Are there scars?" he demanded, turning his back to me. 

I didn't know what to say; I didn't know what to do. It was my turn to panic. Did he say scars? Did that son of a bitch beat him so badly he left _scars?_ On a four year old? I scrubbed my face with both hands then dragged my eyes up to look. Nothing. I breathed a silent sigh of relief, then narrowed my eyes and focused a little more. Still nothing. I was about to open my mouth when I decided to do one more thing. I dialed up touch and then reached out and gently ran my hands over his back. Smooth skin and soft hair covered hard, lean muscles, but nothing felt out of the ordinary. Except ... 

I clenched my jaw. "Nothing visible," I said, the words bitten off through gritted teeth. "But here," I touched him, "and here," another touch, "and here," I said as I traced a short line, "I can feel them." 

I sat back, relieved that was over and shamed by my relief. Sandburg, however, wasn't through. He undid his belt and dropped his pants, then hauled his boxers down. "Well?" he demanded. "Go ahead. You can touch." 

But I didn't have to. Even without Sentinel sight, I could see them. Two thin white lines that crossed his buttocks. 

He was four. 

Four fucking years old. 

A _baby._

Fuck! 

"I don't have to. I can see them." 

"How many?" 

"Two -- on your ..." 

"My ass." 

"Yeah." I swallowed, my mouth suddenly desperately dry, and cleared my throat. I was still looking. "Three more on your upper thighs. Two on the left, one on the right." 

He was getting ready to crash. The rage, the adrenaline, the emotions that had sustained him were burning out fast. He was starting to shake. That was okay. In a perverse way, I was glad he wasn't so angry anymore. I had more than enough anger for both of us. 

"Get dressed, Chief," I ordered him, and it was an effort to keep my voice from giving me away. But he couldn't. His hands were shaking, his legs were shaking, he was quivering in place. He didn't even seem to understand what I had said as he bent and grabbed his pants, but then didn't seem to know what to do. I sighed and moved to help. Got his britches up, zipped and buttoned. Retrieved his shirt from the floor on the other side of the room and slipped it over his head. Once I had him dressed again, I tucked him next to me on the couch, wrapped him in the afghan, and pulled him close. 

"I knew I hadn't invented it, or made it up." His voice was sad and small. He looked up at me as he spoke, blue eyes wide with emotion, but no tears yet. "I tried to tell, but no one would believe me. They said I -- lied." 

My heart clutched. Who said he lied? How many people did this child -- this _baby_ \-- go to and ask for help, only to be turned away? How dare anyone turn away a child who asks for help? 

"I was four fucking years old -- I didn't even know _how_ to lie. And then -- I was afraid to tell." 

Oh, God! What had this monster done? Who or what had he threatened? 

He was crying now -- finally -- and I was relieved. Tears for Sandburg, rage for me. Anything else upsets the natural order of things. I'm not saying it's right -- but it's the way things are. 

"I tried to tell my mother Don had hit me and she wouldn't listen," he said, tears streaming down his face. 

For the first time since all this began, I blamed Naomi for something more than selfishness and immaturity. He'd reached out to her. She was his mother and she was supposed to protect him. 

And she'd failed. 

She'd turned him away when he went to her for help. 

I would never forgive her for that. 

"Then Don told me he'd kill her if I ever told her again." 

He was clinging to me now, not the grown man who was my friend, my partner, my guide, but the four year old child who'd been beaten with a belt. His hands clutched my shirt as if he was afraid I, too, would turn him away. I could only pull him closer, hold him tighter and hope it was enough to see him through this. 

"I was terrified every time Naomi left me with him, even before we moved in. And it was impossible to avoid him once we lived there." 

I didn't know what to do, didn't know what to say, so I was crooning little non-words to him, just sounds that seemed to soothe and comfort him. I held him as tight as I could and stroked his hair. 

"I remember," he said, and I could feel him relax in my arms as the adrenaline high faded and exhaustion crept in. "We lived in Elizabeth City, North Carolina," he said, his head pressed tight against my shirt. "And his name was Don Stanley." 

I held him until he fell asleep, whispering all the time that he was safe and I loved him and nothing could hurt him here. I said it over and over and over again and it seemed to work because his sleep was undisturbed. 

When I felt sure he would be okay, I rose quietly. I looked around my loft, with its brick walls, then looked at the concrete half-walls that surrounded my balcony. Neither would do. 

I stepped into the hall and looked at the sheetrock there. 

Perfect. 

I slammed my fist into the wall, touch dialed exquisitely high, and relished the pain that suffused me. 

I pulled back, took two steps, and did it again. 

And again. 

And again. 

In all, I put seventeen holes in the wall, then went in and made a note to call the building owner and let him know I would fix it. 

I washed my hand, watching the blood from my knuckles swirl down the drain, then quickly wrapped gauze around the wounds. I think I may have broken a few of the smaller bones. 

I didn't really feel better, but the endorphins had helped clear the fog from my head and the haze from my vision. 

I went back to the couch and rearranged Sandburg, settling him with his head in my lap as my fingers carded through his hair. I wouldn't sleep tonight, but it didn't matter. 

My brain was clear. 

I had a name. 

I had a place. 

I had a plan. 

* * *

End A Child's Cry by Daydreamer: daydream59@aol.com

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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